


Stop The World So We Can Spin

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Age Difference, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Universes are about to collide, there's an end-of-the-world party, and the Hawkeyes sneak off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop The World So We Can Spin

**Author's Note:**

> Speed challenge flashporn written for the prompt 'the music sucked, but the wine was decent'. I actually took that literally this time, lol. It made me think of the Secret Wars variant cover Zdarsky drew -- I'll link it later if I can find it -- and things sort of went from there. Also, huh, year and half of otp'ing Hawkeye Squared and finally, FINALLY, I'm getting them laid. About time, wouldn't you say? XD
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82, thank you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Where The Island Ends" by Ryan Star.

Throwing a party for the end of the world is such a Tony Stark thing to do. Then again, Kate assumes, after the first five times or so, impending doom loses some of its horror. 

No one bothered to dress up, having been summoned on short notice and with no other time frame than _whenever you can squeeze it in between world saving_ , so the common floor of Stark Tower is currently crowded with superheroes in either their costumes or civilian clothing hastily thrown on. That doesn't keep Stark from going all in when it comes to logistics: there's an open bar and catering and a godawful DJ playing songs that would befit a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Apparently there are some things even a billionaire's budget will have to make concessions to when organizing a party off the cuff, hovering catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions or not; good DJs, Kate knows, are booked months in advance. If you try to get one last minute, you get the scraps from the bottom of the barrel, years of helping her mother organize charity events taught her that much. 

Clint doesn't seem to mind the terrible background music. He's sipping his third Mai Tai and tapping his foot to the latest musical atrocity, wearing a dopey grin and an old pair of jeans and one of his bullseye t-shirts; they're licensed merch and he's gotten, like, boxes of them when they first came out, and hey, she would have kept them too. 

She points at the drink in his hands. “I never would have pegged you for the tropical-fruity type, when it comes to booze.” 

“That's because you're a snob, Katie.” He waves his glass around for emphasis, all the while grinning at her fondly. “But it's okay, you're still young. You can learn. I'll teach you better.” 

Instead of dignifying that with a reply, Kate levels him with a seething glare. He throws his head back and just laughs at her, but she can't be mad about that; it's good to see him so loose and happy, especially right now, right here. He's still on shaky ground, after everything, L.A. and the tracksuits and _Barney_ , and she worries. Also, while he might have been through enough end-of-the-world scenarios that they make him somewhat gleeful and excited rather than afraid, she's not quite there yet. 

A waiter passes them by, and Kate snags herself a glass of wine. The music might suck, but the wine is decent, roundabout her age if she's not mistaken, and well, maybe he's right; maybe she _is_ a snob. She lets her eyes roam the room, trying to get used to the fact that she's a part of this now – there's no less than four spider-heroes attached to the walls at various heights, Captain Marvel has snatched Colonel Rhodes to dance with him a good two meters above everyone's heads, and somewhere to her left, She-Hulk is talking economics with Doctor Strange. 

Clint nudges her to get her attention, then proceeds to sway his body back in forth in what he probably considers dancing, a surefire sign he's leaving _slightly buzzed_ and marching straight into _plastered_. “Don't be so grouchy, Hawkeye. It's only the end of the world.” 

“Not funny, Hawkeye.” She shoots him another glare, but it's a few levels below the previous one. “After I've died and came back from the dead, like, a handful of times, maybe I'll be more blasé about these things too.” 

And then something incredible happens: switching lanes from goofy to suggestive in the space of a blink, Clint gets that look – the one that's almost like peering up through his lashes except he's a got a few inches on her and is actually glancing _down_ – and she can practically _feel_ his voice turning gravely before he starts talking. 

“What you need,” he declares, “is a distraction.” 

And maybe it's the Mai Tais or maybe he's not as unaffected by the situation as he pretends to be, or maybe he's just plain been paying attention to the fact that sex is a distraction Kate won't _ever_ say no to, but the fact that Clint's the one to initiating things between them is a rarity. They haven't been doing this for long, whatever _this_ is. She's not sure she'd call it dating; it seems more like a natural progression, just an extension of what they'd already been. Maybe that's why they haven't named it yet – doing so would make it trivial, something normal and settled, and Kate's not quite ready for that. They'll figure it out as they go along. Either way, he's still a little gun shy, has moved beyond denial but still trips over the age difference sometimes, and she suspects being the one who makes the first move still feels too much like taking advantage. She'll get that idea out of his head eventually. 

“Good thought,” she replies, batting her eyes as she takes his Mai Tai from him, empties her wine, and disposes of both. 

“Here's trying.” He shrugs as he takes her hand. “Not sure we can score a bedroom without anyone noticing, but I think I recall a few places in here we can sneak off to.” 

She follows him out through the crowed, her nerve endings already catching up with the events ahead, buzzing at her when she runs into the Black Widow, of all people, on her way out. She mumbles an apology and tries, rather unsuccessfully, to avoid imaging that Natasha was probably able to read their intent with a single glance. 

Clint leads them down a dimly lit hallway – party mode, she recalls it usually being bright as day – and the further away they get from the people and the music and the drinks and the reason behind it all, the less it seems to matter. He stops in front of a nondescript wooden door, not quite fancy enough to be leading to an apartment, fumbling for his wallet to get at his access card and also digging out a condom in the process, which he shoves into her hand. Hopeless romantic, that one. She rolls her eyes at him, and he just shrugs again, smiling at her in a way that renders the fact that he's an idiot and also a huge dork wholly irrelevant. 

The door beeps and springs open, and reveals what seems to be some sort of a utility room. Kate raises her eyebrows at him. “Seriously?” 

“You really are a snob,” he chides, dragging her in there with him. It's quite spacey, the likes of Tony Stark don't even scrimp on broom closets, and it doesn't take him long to find an empty span of wall to crowd her up against. And okay; it might not be a suite in the Hilton, but it'll serve their purpose. 

He doesn't waste any time, kisses her like he's been waiting for it for days instead of just the handful of minutes it took them to get here, sliding the cardigan she's wearing off her shoulders and pushing the tank top underneath up just enough so he can wrap his hands around her bare waist, and she's not the least bit ashamed to admit that she's _melting_ against him. She recovers quickly, though, reassessing her priorities; kissing is good, kissing is _great_ but right now she'd much rather have him naked. 

She pushes at him until he gets the hint, taking a step back, looking at her questioningly. Instead of a verbal reply, she reaches out to tug at his t-shirt, and he grins, nodding, pulls it off over his head. Kate watches as he thoughtlessly throws it aside and pops open the first button of his jeans. He stops, raising his eyebrows, and she waves at him to continues, watching him strip, putting up a show. Every so often, the performer in him makes an appearance and that works out perfectly because Kate really _likes_ to watch. On second thought, maybe he's simply caught up to that – she doesn't care, not as long as the end result is that she gets to ogle him to her heart's content as he stands before her bare-ass naked, looking at her like he's waiting for further instructions. 

When none are forthcoming, he takes the initiative, and before Kate knows it he's sinking to his knees in front of her, fumbling to get her jeans open and pull it down together with her panties. She pushes off the wall and, once they're pooling at her feet, widens her stance to give him better access. 

He brushes his thumb through her labia, parting them gently before first tentative lick. His hands are gripping her hips, pulling her forward, and Kate arches, shoulders leaning on the wall and hips pressing into his mouth, demanding more, demanding he stop teasing. He's not too familiar with her body yet, can't be after such a short time, but he's experienced, and it doesn't take him long to figure out what works for her, flicking his tongue over her clit with varying intensity until she's moaning and feels the muscles in her thighs tense involuntarily. Carding her hands through the short hair at the nape of his neck, she bites her lips lest anyone hear them, swallowing down the need to be noisy, make her pleasure known; Kate is very much what you'd consider a screamer. He works her through a quick, shallow orgasm, the kind that's sloshing through her rather than being overwhelming, but that's okay; they're merely working up to the main event here, not done yet at all. She reaches down to cup his chin, bring his head up so he stops and looks up, licking her taste of his lips, and she wants to burst with all the things she feels for him; her partner, her best friend, her... something more, something she can't put words to yet. Of course she loves him – she already did that before they started sleeping with each other, and maybe that's the reason why she has such a hard time defining what they are now. 

But that's an enigma she'll set to solving some other time. Right now, she needs him close, needs him inside, and she remembers she's still got the condom clutched in her other hand, opens it and glances down at it in what she hopes his clear enough a hint. And he gets it, rises to his feet to kiss her again, and she runs her hands down his back as he does so, coming to rest just above his ass, pushing him closer – close enough that she can rub her wet cunt against his cock, hard where it strains up against his belly, and he groans into her mouth, low and needy. Kate steps out of the clothes still tangled around her feet and hurries to roll the condom on, and then he's grabbing her, elevating her so she can sling her legs around him as he pushes into her, her head falling forward so her cheek rests against his neck. 

He takes her weight easily, thrusting into her in long strokes, tortuously slow and measured movements, almost pulling out before driving back in, and it sets her blood on fire. She's moving with him, her body caught between his and the wall, swiveling her hips as much as she's go leverage to do so. Her hands still on his ass, she feels the muscles underneath flex and relax in a steady rhythm, grabbing harder until he gets the message and ups his pace. Her climax still builds slowly this time, gradually, a slow burn that starts in the core of her and spreads out like a fever, face pressed into his skin to keep from crying out as it surges through her. She's dimly aware that she's digging her nails in when she comes, and she can't be sure there's a correlation between the two but suddenly he's coming too, bottoming out, moving inside of her with small, erratic circular motions until he backs her up against the wall once more for support, signal for her to unwrap her legs from his waist and stand on her own two feet. 

He swiftly disposes of the condom in one of the waste bins stored in here in a way that only confirms her suspicions that this is far from the first time he's re-purposed one of these closets for a quickie. He's no blank page; she knew that, and she doesn't care. 

“Alright then,” he says, pulling on his jeans with a broad grin; this one's dopey too, but for much better reasons. “Feeling better?” 

Kate cocks her head to the side. “Right this second? I couldn't care less about whether or not the universe is gonna fall down around us within a matter of hours.” 

“Good. Mission accomplished.” He has retrieved his t-shirt, turns it this way and that to find the neck hole. “Let's go back. I'm gonna order you a Mai Tai. Gonna teach you how to get through an apocalypse in style.” 

She looks him up and down, her turn to grin. “As if _you_ could teach _me_ anything about style.”

Having finished getting dressed, he wraps his arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Respect your elders, Hawkeye. Respect your elders.” 

She elbows him in the side. He drags her into a headlock. She playfully kicks him in the shin. Somewhere in there, someone works his fly open again. 

Never let it be said that Kate's too obstinate to take advice when it's offered, but right now, the Mai Tais will just have to wait.


End file.
